


The Coldest Winters Are Those of Past

by notsovileblood



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Bathing/Washing, Camping, Childhood Trauma, Confessional, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsovileblood/pseuds/notsovileblood
Summary: Geralt brings Jaskier up to Kaer Morhen for the winter; they both expect to enjoy a relaxing break from their usual life. The secrets of the castle can't, however, crumble with the walls.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Witcher fic! I've been meaning to write one for a while. I'm doing this between exams and a lot of due dates so it might be slow to update here and there.

The wind seemed to get colder and colder every single year. 

Geralt shifted in his armour, huffing and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Jaskier hadn’t toppled off of his horse. The ride up the mountain was a long and hard one, and if he was entirely honest with himself, Geralt wasn’t sure if he’d entirely thought it through. Jaskier was shivering, wrapped in a coat he’d done nothing but complain about having to wear. Something about the colour not matching his new purple doublet and washing him out. The fog was starting to set in as they neared the paths that Geralt had travelled numerous times in his long life, the sun slowly starting to kiss the horizon over the mountains. Furrowing his brow slightly, Geralt wondered if they’d need to make camp for the night; he’d rather continue on, but travelling the mountain at night could be dangerous. There were copious amounts of harpies swarming the ridges, and while in theory Jaskier getting carried off was very amusing to think about, he was not particularly in the mood to get snowed out of the fort chasing feathery hags around. 

“Geralt, how much longer?” Jaskier’s teeth chattered, his face stretched in that particularly pained expression he wore when he whined. “I swear we’ve been climbing this mountain for a month.”

“Two weeks.” Geralt snorted, scratching at his scruffy neck. The barber in Novigrad had done a shit job on his beard, and he’d likely need to shave it again once they reached Kaer Morhen. 

“Well it certainly doesn’t feel like it!” Jaskier grumbled, his horse snorting at his loudness. “Should it be this cold? It’s not winter just yet.”

“We’re a few days later than I’d like.” Geralt rumbled, pausing as he noticed a particularly large tree up ahead through the fog. “We’ll have to stop for the night. Too dangerous otherwise.”

“Alright.” Jaskier grumbled, pulling his horse behind Roach as Geralt picked up the pace.

Surely enough, there was a small, even part of ground they’d be able to spend the night on and rest the horses. Sure, it wasn’t ideal and would be about as comfortable as sleeping on a pile of rocks could get, but it was better than having to sleep in the old Forktail den they’d spent the last evening in. It had smelt just about as pleasant as the pile of half-eaten sheep in the back corner of the cave, and had been strangely damp. Geralt had affectionately remembered Eskel and his Lil Bleater, and the occasion on which the scarred Witcher had almost used her as bait. He then joked that maybe he should have used Jaskier as bait, but the bard hadn’t found that very funny. But the small area of somewhat even ground had just barely enough space to rest the horses and make a little fire; Geralt wondered if they’d have to share a bedroll due to the sheer lack of space.

They’d done so a few times before recently, and a number over the years; Geralt never quite got used to it. Jaskier had always been the one he’d had true feelings for. He’d only really realised just how much he’d loved Jaskier until he and Yennefer had truly severed the magical tie between them. As Yennefer had asked him if he still felt that love between them, he’d barely been able to answer. His heart had swelled with about as much emotion as his mutagen dulled heart could handle, and had felt almost sick at the sheer force of it. 

“Here will do.” Geralt grunted, gently shifting his hips and urging Roach to stop. “You tie the horses to the tree.”

“As long as I don’t have to set up the camp.” Some of Jaskier’s cheer seemed to thaw through the frost on his skin as he hopped off of his cranky gelding. 

Geralt swung off of Roach and landed on the gravelly ground, his body pushing a huff out of him as he landed. Slinging the packs off of Roach’s rump, Geralt began to place the bags and decide exactly where he was going to set up the fire. As he started to set up the fire, Geralt couldn’t help but stare a little at Jaskier. He was tying the horses, cheerfully chatting to them as he did. Roach almost bit him as he reached up to rub her nose, pulling a laughable little yelp from the bard. Geralt snorted and grinned, not looking up as he used Igni to light the pile of sticks. Once the camp was finally set up, the odd little pair were able to rest at last. Jaskier was wrapped up in his coat like a child in a blanket, warming his thin fingers by the fire. 

“What exactly did you put in the stew by the way?” Geralt glanced at the bard, raising an eyebrow. 

Jaskier was usually in charge the cooking, and somehow managed to make edible meals out of the things Geralt stored in his pack. The small pot boiling over the fire was barely managing to stay upright on the bundle of sticks Jaskier had expertly crafted, but whatever was in there smelt slightly . . . different than usual.

“Well, we’re running out of the nice stuff so I wanted to save it for special occasions.” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, grabbing the ladle from the pack of cooking supplies to stir around the murky liquid. “So, um, I just used some of the meat from those wolves we found the other day.”

“Wolf?” Geralt almost spat, eyes widening. 

“We’re almost out of pork!” 

“I can’t wait to get home.” Geralt grumbled, rubbing his face. 

“I did my best with what I had. You’ll eat it, and you’ll stop complaining.” Jaskier gave him a sharp but playful look, handing him a messily carved wooden bowl full of murky soup.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, accepting the bowl and sniffing it. The scent coming off of it was almost as bad as the wolves themselves smelt, and he could practically see the fumes coming off of it. Jaskier had a rather displeased expression on his face, but after a nervous nod, the pair of travellers began to eat their dinner. Geralt paused as he swallowed, furrowing his brow. The pair made eye contact and stared at each other, before in unison, said the same thing.

“Tastes . . . like a chicken.”

Jaskier snorted and Geralt turned his head, glad he was barely able to blush. Jaskier made him feel a way he’d never really thought possible. He was so stupid and ridiculous, and anyone else acting the way his bard did just made him angry. 

“Still absolutely awful.” Jaskier chuckled as he continued to eat, starting to slowly get used to the taste of the sinewy wolf meat. “I must admit though Geralt, I really expected this ride to be a little more exciting. I was hoping to have some sonnets at least in mind by now! So far all it’s been is snow and Roach’s farts.”

Roach angrily snorted at the mention of her name, swishing her tail.

“Careful, she might kick your head while you sleep.” Geralt grunted, lifting the bowl to his mouth and drinking the broth. Even though the meat was a little stringier and smellier than he’d usually enjoy, the soup wasn’t bad. Jaskier had a way with that accursed little cooking pot. 

Jaskier smiled slightly, glancing at the slightly visible outline of the castle in the foggy distance. He was a little anxious to be entering the fortress. While of course he knew that almost everything he’d ever heard about Witcher’s wasn’t true, he had no idea what to expect from the School of the Wolf. Geralt had mentioned that their little family gathered there for winters often; Geralt’s brothers, Eskel and Lambert would be there, as well as Geralt’s adoptive father Vesemir. While of course they weren’t dating or anything, so it wasn’t like the times he’d had to meet partner’s parents, it was still daunting. These were the only people Geralt really had as family, and they clearly meant a lot to him. He was terrified of messing up and possible embarrassing himself which he so often did. 

“You alright?” Geralt’s gravelly voice dragged him from the fog of his mind and into the fog of the mountains. 

“Yeah.” Jaskier ran a hand through his hair, placing his bowl down near the little rock circle around the firepit. “I suppose I’m just nervous.”

“Hm?” Geralt stared at him. Ever the expressive man.

“Well, I’ve never really met any Witcher’s other than you.”

Geralt’s eyes flashed with something that disappeared just as quickly as Jaskier noticed it. His sharp amber eyes were as bright as the coals in the firepit, his pupils not giving away much either. Jaskier fidgeted with the calluses on his fingers, rumbling softly. For someone so eloquent and so quick witted, Jaskier was struggling for his words. Geralt’s presence had that effect on him; silencing his thoughts, making the world around him melt into a muddled mess of noise and colour. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“I know, I’m just . . I’m just nervous.” Jaskier glanced over at Geralt, searching his face for comfort. 

Geralt was quiet for a moment, the pair staring at each other for a brief moment before they looked away. Jaskier’s heart was pounding in his chest like that of a rabbit, a mixture of scents coming off of him; a faint, sour smell of fear and the dry stink of exhaustion. But there was something else coming from him, something sweeter, gentler. He knew that smell, but couldn’t quite place it. Geralt knew that if the bard was going to get any sleep that night – more so, if Geralt would be able to sleep through his insomnia induced singing – he was going to have to say something in the same realm as tender to comfort him.

“You know, once, me, Eskel and Lambert got really trashed and snuck into Yennefer’s room and stole some of her dresses.”

Geralt could smell the acrid odour of anxiety slowly disappear off of Jaskier, and a small smile appearing on the bard’s tired face.

“We accidentally called some random guy on one of Yennefer’s contraptions.” Geralt grinned, remembering the occasion fondly. “Yen was not happy. She sent us all to bed after screaming at all of us. We all woke up with the worst fucking hangover. I didn’t feel right for like, a week.” 

Geralt paused as he recognised that devilish glint in Jaskier’s bright blue eyes. He pointed a finger, narrowing his eyes. 

“Don’t you dare even think about writing some song about that, bard.”

Jaskier’s smile only widened.

“I’m going to bed.” Geralt huffed, shaking his head. “We’ll have to cuddle it out tonight. Only the one bedroll will fit on the ground.”

“If you drool on me again, Witcher, I might just accidentally kick you down the damn mountain.”

Geralt half grinned; he and Jaskier had a habit of calling each other ‘Witcher’ and ‘Bard’ in little situations like these. They seemed so mundane, and so silly, but it was something he’d never really had before. His flings with Triss were always sweet but short, and his relationship with Yennefer hadn’t ended as soon as it should have. She’d never really treated him the way he’d deserved, and it had been hard for him to come to terms with. But Jaskier? Jaskier was so different to both of them.

“Fuck off.” Geralt shoved him playfully, maybe a little too hard. He smirked as Jaskier groaned, pretending to be more winded than he was for the dramatic effect as always. “Don’t be up too late.”

“I won’t.” Jaskier smiled slightly, watching with a soft feeling in his chest as he watched Geralt get ready for bed.


	2. A Smooth Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for such a warm response on my last chapter! Glad to see folks are enjoying so far. Like I said I'll be updating this somewhat regularly, and hope for it to be relatively long. In regard to which lore I'll mainly be using for backstory etc., it'll be mainly books with a bit of the games/shows here and there.

The trip had only taken roughly nine or ten more hours, much to Jaskier’s delight.

As the fortress came ever closer through the fog, Jaskier’s joy seemed to thaw from the cold grips of their journey. Not that he’d ever admit it, but Geralt was pleased to see Jaskier back to his normal self. He’d even started playing his lute while they’d ridden again; he’d done nothing but complain about his joints being too cold to play, and he couldn’t risk damaging lest not being able to play when they finally arrived. For someone who was a little panicky about meeting Geralt’s family, he was certainly excited to play for them. But that was Jaskier; even in the grottiest towns, in the tiniest inns, Jaskier loved to play. He played for Roach when he thought Geralt wasn’t around even though she tried to bite him for waking her. Geralt had to admit he was in a shockingly good mood himself – if you could differentiate that from his usual sourness, that is. Winter was a time he enjoyed. Getting to see his family again was something he always looked forward to. Even if that meant having to shovel shit in the barns, or put up with Lambert being bitter and rude and Eskel dragging monster corpses into the damn castle every other week. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how Vesemir would react to Jaskier, though. The old man hadn’t always been fond of Geralt’s partners, and he still didn’t enjoy having Yennefer around every once in a blue moon. He was old fashioned, and a little iffy about having any non-Witchers in the castle. Part of Geralt knew why.

That castle, while his home, hid such a darkness.

So many had died in the fortress; so many young children dying in utter agony; only a small group of them ever really leaving. The torture chambers were, while rotting away in the darkness, still there rotting nonetheless. Geralt never forgot the first time he’d stumbled upon the pre-fortress Trial rooms as an adult. He’d thought their own Trials had been barbaric. But the devices he’d found, the notes and the diaries? They were nothing compared to the bones. The piles of bones in those caves, glittering as the water from the ceiling dripped onto their ashen skulls. While Vesemir had of course not been around since the very beginning, he was old enough. Lambert constantly badgering him about the whys of the Trials was bad enough; he’d have to remind Jaskier not to bring it up with him. That was a mess Geralt really did not feel like cleaning up.  
Adjusting his shoulder plates, Geralt paused as they finally approached the castle gates. Jaskier had strapped his lute back down, his head tilted back in awe of the sheer scale of the castle. It was huge; Geralt often forgot just how expansive it all was. All the towers, gates and crumbling walls; Vesemir was working on the castle year round, and it never seemed to improve in its state. 

“This is it?” Jaskier glanced at Geralt with a smile, his bottle blue eyes glittering with excitement. 

“Mhm.” Geralt nodded, gently shifting his hips and urging Roach onward.

The clouds behind them indicated they’d only barely made it; a few more days on the trail, and they would have been caked in snow. The portcullis was raised, indicating Vesemir was still expecting them. Jaskier followed Geralt into the main courtyards through the crumbling passes, the flames of the torches flickering with that familiar scent Igni often left behind. 

“It’s so much bigger than I’d imagined. You have no idea how great this is going to be for my creativity.” Jaskier chatted away as they made their way through; swords could be heard from the sparring yard, making him pause for a moment. “Is something going on? The castle isn’t being attacked is it?”

Geralt snorted, not hesitating and continuing on through the yards. 

“Just Eskel getting his ass kicked by Vesemir by the looks.” He grunted, pulling roach over by the old food troughs and swinging himself off of her back. While she was a comfortable mount, nothing was worse than riding for two straight weeks. His back crunched as he landed, causing him to shift slightly. “Come on.”

Jaskier dropped from his gelding’s back with a grunt, lacking the grace he usually displayed while performing, brushing off his legs and pulling his cloak from his shoulders to drape over his horse’s saddle. Geralt noticed him give the old horse a pat and a soft word, smiling slightly to himself before trotting over to join the large Witcher. The rather odd little pair made their way over to where Vesemir and Eskel were sparring; Eskel was indeed getting his ass handed to him, huffing as Vesemir sent him to the ground with a rather strong blast of Aard. 

“Too slow. Up and try it again.” Vesemir’s voice was even raspier than Geralt’s, but his tone was a little gentler. The older man paused and smiled, wrinkles pulling at his weathered face as he did. “Geralt! You’re finally here.”

“Greetings, Vesemir.” Geralt greeted him warmly with a hug, the pair patting each other’s backs before Geralt moved to help his brother up off the ground. 

Eskel flushed and stumbled to his feet, pausing and glancing over to Jaskier who was standing rather awkwardly holding his lute strap a little like his life depended on it. He smiled a crooked little smile, now realising rather uncomfortably that the attention was on him. Vesemir gave him a look he couldn’t read, sheathing his sword.

“And who is this?” Vesemir didn’t pull his eyes from Geralt. 

“This is Jaskier. I’ve told you about him before.”

“I remember. The bard, yes?” 

“Mhm.”

“Well, welcome to Kaer Morhen Jaskier.” Vesemir dipped his head kindly, seeming to ease Jaskier’s anxiety a little. 

“It’s lovely to finally meet you.” Jaskier smiled, approaching the group of men. “I’ve heard much about you all.” 

“I’m Eskel.” The scarred Witcher introduced himself, offering Jaskier a rather meaty hand and a smile. 

Jaskier flushed and smiled, shaking his hand. Geralt was glad he hadn’t stared; Eskel was so uncomfortable when it came to discussing his scars, and took comments about them rather to heart. But Jaskier, ever polite, didn’t so much as give them a second glance. Vesemir declined any physical greeting from Jaskier, clearly not having quite made up his mind yet. 

“Lovely to meet you. You’re Geralt’s brother, right?” 

“Unfortunately.”

Geralt shot him a look, rolling his amber eyes. 

“Where’s Lambert? He not here yet?” He asked, turning his head to Vesemir. 

“He’s raiding the kitchen. Said something about wanting to get to the good meats before you got here.”

Geralt snorted, shaking his head and smiling slightly. 

“I’ll leave you two to continue training. I want to unpack and have a bath.” He grunted, nodding to Jaskier and heading back toward the horses. 

Jaskier smiled slightly and waved his farewells to the older Witchers as they continued with their sparring, jogging after Geralt to join him in removing their packs from the horses. He groaned as Geralt handed him the bag of his clothes, his knees bending slightly at the weight. 

“Geralt, you’re stronger than me. Can’t I just carry something smaller?”

“Don’t want Vesemir to hear you whining or he’ll make you carry around something that’s actually heavy.” He grinned, shouldering Jaskier playfully and grabbing two of the larger packs from Roach’s back. 

The pair began to traipse inside the enormous castle; Geralt forgot just how much it was crumbling. Vesemir did his very best to keep it in even somewhat considerable condition; he made a mental note to try and help the old man here and there over the winter months, maybe replaster some walls or fix up a door that was laying broken by its frame. Jaskier twirled loosely in circles as they walked, trying to drink in every inch of the castle he possibly could. Geralt had to admit it was rather sweet. Jaskier had played in the most elegant of courts, seen the most beautiful castles all around the continent and beyond; and he was still impressed by the crumbling ruins of Geralt’s childhood home. His chest twisted slightly in a manner he didn’t much like; swallowing it down, Geralt led Jaskier through the halls toward the staircase that led to his own room; it wasn’t as beautifully decorated as it was when he and Yennefer had been together, but Geralt wasn’t too upset at that.

Any reminders of her presence here were not entirely ones he wanted. That was a part of his life he was passed on from now. 

“It’s incredibly more beautiful than you described it, Geralt.” Jaskier spoke as the pair made their way upstairs. “You gave me the impression we’d be sleeping on a pile of rubble.”

“It was much more structurally sound when I was young.” Geralt shrugged, nudging the carved door and making his way into the room. 

There was definitely a presence of some sort gone with Yennefer’s things not being there anymore. She’d insisted on taking them, and had done so entirely without Geralt’s permission as usual. That had always been something he’d hated about her. Always refusing to consult him first, insisting she’d fill him in later, or sometimes not telling him at all. She promised it had not been because she saw him as dull, but she certainly had never acted like it. 

“This is yours? Geralt it’s lovely!” Jaskier beamed, dropping his rather heavy bag of clothes on the floor and dashing about like a child as he explored the room. His face was as bright as the sun through the winter clouds, causing Geralt to pause for a moment and blush as much as he was able. “How come you don’t stay here more often? If I was you, Id’ be living here year round.”

Geralt simply grunted, placing down his bags and dodging the question. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted Jaskier to know quite why he didn’t like being at the fortress more than every winter here and there. Not quite yet.

“I’ll get that bath going. I want to have one as well. It’s absolutely criminal that we haven’t been able to bath these last few weeks.”

“There was that waterfall.”

“Geralt, that was an over glorified sprinkle of ice water, it was not a bath.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, pretending to be irritated as he usually did. He began to untie his armour pieces, pausing as he heard Jaskier make a little noise. The bard’s hands went up excitedly and he turned, grinning at Geralt. 

“You didn’t tell me you had one of these fancy baths!”

“It’s been built into the castle since I can remember.”

“I don’t need to go get buckets! Excellent!” Jaskier played around with the tub until he finally got water going, humming to himself as he rummaged through the soaps, salts and oils that Yennefer had left behind. 

Geralt approached silently, placing his arm in the cold tub and casting Igni to heat it. Always managed to save them a little bit of coins in the inns having ‘cold baths’. Most places charged for the hot water, and always gave Geralt a funny look when he said he didn’t need them to do so. Shuffling off his shirt, Geralt finally slipped into the hot, steaming water, grumbling as Jaskier dropped some salts in. Grumbling at him and brushing the salts off of his leg, Geralt finally lay back his head. The two weeks on the mountain began to thaw, his muscles loosening and the stiffness ebbing away. 

“Scooch!” Jaskier shooed him onto one side of the tub, slipping into the water himself. Geralt hadn’t seen him undress, a little taken aback by Jaskier’s bare ass being presented to him. “Fuck that’s hot Geralt!”

“Baby.” Geralt teased, tilting his head back.

Home at last.


End file.
